


The Trouble With Veelas

by hiddenhibernian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Ministry of Magic, Pining, Post-War, Veela, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-31 11:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenhibernian/pseuds/hiddenhibernian
Summary: Draco just wants to make Hermione happy. Unfortunately, telling her he is a Veela and she is his mate would achieve exactly the opposite, so he has to find another way. Nothing else in Draco's life has gone according to plan, so he ought to have known it would only go downhill from there...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Fandoms for Hope and Relief on Facebook, a fan event to raise money for hurricane relief following Hurricane Harvey and Irma. Thanks ever so much to my lovely beta DayDreamDreamer. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

“This has to be a joke.” It was more of a plea for help that a serious question. Unfortunately, Draco knew exactly what his mother looked like when she had bad news to deliver.

“Would you rather be insane? That's the other option, with blood like ours.” 

Other people being reasonable about problems not affecting them were rarely helpful; this was no exception.

“Remind me again why we signed up to fighting for the Dark Lord if this is what you get after twenty generations of pure-bloods,” Draco mumbled, but his heart wasn't in it.

Being told that he was a bloody Veela was enough to make any man depressed.

It wasn't like he got any benefit from it, unlike the females of the species. Draco's good looks were entirely natural – male Veelas looked like anyone else, up until the point where their beak came out and all aspirations to normality were lost.

“As no one bothered to ask my opinion before shackling themselves to that contemptible half-blood, I am unable to answer that question.” Mother seemed to be full of barely suppressed anger these days; Draco should probably be grateful she hadn't brought out any fireballs yet.

“You could have told me you both have Veela blood before, though.” Draco gloomily inspected the talon that had been his first clue something was amiss.

“Due to the pressure you were under, we were reluctant to tell you about what was a remote possibility at the time.”

“Not so bloody remote, was it?” Draco said under his breath.

Narcissa had always had excellent hearing, especially where he was concerned. “There is no need to use vulgar language. I sympathise with your affliction, of course, but hopefully it can be managed. It need not disturb the natural course of your life at all.”

She did not mention the Erumpent in the room – his mate, or lack thereof.

The reason the Blacks had managed to rack up twenty generations of pure-blood ancestors was that Veelas were not completely stupid, in evolutionary terms. Normally, Veelas attached themselves to a mate that they were attracted to before their heritage manifested itself and they erupted in feathers when crossed.

Mating required proximity and affection – it had been fairly easy for strict parents to manipulate, ensuring their offspring met only suitable partners during the crucial period.

Draco, however, had been working at the security desk receiving visitors to the Ministry of Magic for the last three years, as part of his probation. If there were any of his contemporaries he had not met in that period, it was probably because they had emigrated to Antarctica.

He was still no closer to knowing who it was that had triggered his transformation – the talons had emerged during an argument with his father, with the unexpected bonus of shutting Lucius up mid-argument for the first time. It probably wouldn't work the next time, but Draco planned to cherish the memory of his father's face, with the mouth hanging open and a look of what only could be fear, as Draco was waving a four-inch talon in front of him.

He ruthlessly suppressed the fluttering in his stomach that suggested very well he knew who he wanted his mate to be.

It would be fine. It would probably turn out to be Pansy. She would happily accept his proposal and move into the Manor, and as long as Draco developed selective deafness and several time-consuming hobbies they would probably rub along tolerably.

Flights of fancy were very good to keep him entertained when the endless stream of visitors to the Ministry subsided, but they didn't belong in real life.

* * *

“Walnut and phoenix feather, 11''.” Draco flexed it. “Still unyielding, I see. One could almost suspect the wand of being metaphorical, Miss Granger.”

She snatched her wand back, but her eyes were laughing. “Despite your best efforts, you might add.”

“Just doing my job,” he defended himself, trying to string out the moment as long as possible.

Hermione hoisted her battered messenger bag on her shoulder, stuck her wand back into her robes and went off in the direction of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Draco tried not to look like he had suffered a bereavement as the last strand of bouncing brown hair disappeared around the corner.

Right-o.

Now that he knew who his mate was, all he needed to do was to decide what to do with that knowledge.

Unfortunately, burrowing himself into a hole deep beneath Levels 11, 12 and 13 of the Ministry was not an option.

Whatever else he was, Draco was still a Malfoy and with that came certain obligations.

While he did not agree with his father what they were, they still required him to be a functioning member of society. Step one in this master plan had been to do the opposite of what his parents had suggested in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts. Hiding away at the Manor pretending the war had never happened may have been a damn sight easier than facing his former enemies in the Ministry Atrium, but Draco would still have been an outcast and the Malfoy name mud.

Doing things his way had meant some uncomfortable months, but eventually everyone had gotten used to his presence. He had even been promoted. They needed all hands on deck to process arrivals in the mornings, but after that Draco had plenty of time to spend developing truly tricky spells to protect the Ministry.

It wasn't what he would have chosen, but then the results of Draco making his own choices had been appalling. Perhaps it was just as well that his subconscious had picked a mate for him.

Only then did it occur to him that his parents' objections to his parole arrangements may have been linked to his Veela heritage, rather than a deep-rooted dislike of seeing a Malfoy work like a normal person.

“All right, Draco? You look like the Crup ate your dinner.” Trust Perkins to pick today for being observant; they could have done with it last week when Internal Audit had been snooping around their Detecting Charms. 

“If only,” Draco mumbled absentmindedly.

He had got an idea.

* * *

“You want me to explain coffee pods to you?” Tracey Davis viewed the world with healthy scepticism at the best of times, but her reaction made Draco wonder if he had missed something essential.

Maybe the little capsules were made from lost children or something. Unlikely, considering Hermione's tendencies towards saving people, but a possibility.

“Draco, why do you care about how Muggles make coffee? You hate coffee.”

Once upon a time, she might have said that he hated Muggles, but Tracey had always been very good at knowing which way the wind was blowing (as evidenced by having picked the right side to fight for in the war, instead of figuring out the hard way like most of the other Slytherins).

“Someone I want to curry a favour from drinks Muggle coffee.”

“Ah.”

Amongst Slytherins, it was never hard to find a plausible explanation. No one expected him to tell the truth, after all.

* * *

Hermione inspected her desk dubiously. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures did not spend money willy-nilly – if something still worked, odds were it was still in place, despite it dating back centuries (witness the retrograde Magical Creature legislation).

Nothing had changed since last week – the battered mahogany surface was still covered with parchments, memos and reference books, with the occasional empty cup thrown in.

The chair was the same, too, as was the rest of the room – Whittlewaite did not move unless he had to, having wiggled out of field assignments several decades ago. These days, he seemed to have stopped leaving his desk, too, making full use of his wand to complete the minuscule amount of work he saw fit to turn in.

Thinking about Whittlewaite set Hermione's blood pressure soaring. Ironically, that's what tipped her off.

It wasn't the office that had changed, it was her: somehow, she had been more content, for want of a better word, in the last few days. It certainly wasn't due to Whittlewaite doing an honest day's work for once, so what else could explain it?

Her eye landed on the empty cups – wasn't there quite a lot of them?

After rounding up the cups, she counted them. Eight cups of coffee in two days was rather a lot. Deciding to do some fieldwork, she left the snoring Whittlewaite behind.

* * *

“Someone fiddling with your coffee machine to make it nicer isn't the Aurors' usual remit, Hermione.” The more reasonable Harry became, the more irritating Hermione found him. 

“But why would they do that? Are you sure there's nothing in those pods?”

“Nothing more sinister than some rather nice Ethiopian roast. Are you sure they didn't just get a new supplier?”

Hermione sighed. “This is the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Nothing has changed since 1893 unless I instigated it.”

“A Ministry-wide change, then?”

“Nope. I checked your machine before getting here – it's the same muck as usual.”

Harry pushed his chair back, stretching before he bounced on his heels. “Maybe you have an unknown benefactor, then. What's his name – Thistlethwaite? Maybe someone has the hots for him?”

“I'm not going for lunch with you if you're going to say things like that!”

* * *

The following day brought more decent coffee and a letter by owl.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

it began.

_We are pleased to announce that you have been selected to participate in a random study to explore your preferences for a range of consumer goods._

Hermione moved to tear it up before spotting the penultimate paragraph:

_While we recognise this will require a few hours of your time, we hope that 1,089 Galleons, 5 sickles, and one Knut will provide suitable compensation._

In addition to being frustrating, often boring and sometimes infuriating, working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was also badly paid. If one considered her hourly rate, Hermione would earn more washing dishes at The Leaky Cauldron.

More than a thousand Galleons would allow her to go on holidays somewhere more exciting than Devon this year (while The Burrow certainly never was boring, warring siblings and impromptu Quidditch matches blurred into the same after a few years).

She could go to South America, to learn from the Creature legislation there...

Hermione's dreams of exotic bureaucracy were rudely interrupted by her common sense. Especially coming on foot of the mysterious coffee swap, anyone showing an exaggerated interest in her was suspicious.

Still, more than a grand – it was worth a few discrete checks, surely?

* * *

Hermione knew her Hufflepuffs, and Hannah Abbott was so straight the average arrow stood no chance.

From Hannah's account of her work, it wasn't very different from Muggle customer research outfits, and there was no obvious catch. Besides, if Hannah asked anything that conceivably could be dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands, Hermione could just cut the interview short. Whether she preferred Earl Grey to English Breakfast wasn't really of interest to anyone – was it?

Hermione almost dropped her cup of Earl Grey (only at breakfast, and it had to be Twinings or it didn't taste right).

What if someone would try to impersonate her? Knowing her preferences for seemingly innocuous things would make it considerably easier – hadn't she found out the hard way how many little things the successful impersonator must manage? A thousand Galleons was all well and good, but it wasn't worth compromising her security.

Regretfully, she pulled out a piece of parchment to write to Hannah. A holiday would have been nice.


	2. Chapter 2

“What am I supposed to do now, then?” Draco asked the empty breakfast room, setting fire to the letter from Hannah, regretfully explaining Hermione had declined to participate in the survey.

His probation officer had spoken at length about the importance of staying in touch with one's feelings – surely she would be proud to see him find a 'healthy outlet'. Mrs Price probably would not have expected him to use a fireball spontaneously generated from his hand, but then she was a woman of little imagination.

Draco sighed and buried his hands fist-deep in his hair. Surely, there must be a way to find out what Hermione liked without dosing her with Veritaserum and Obliviating her afterwards? While he wasn't under any illusions that she returned his regard, she did at least not curse him on sight at the moment.

There had to be a way, there had to be a way...

He sat bolt upright, hands momentarily free from hair.

There was a way. 

It was quite similar to his least preferred method, but with the advantage that he wouldn't be deceiving Hermione. Fortunately for his probation status, it was also entirely legal. He could thank his ancestors for that – generations of Malfoys had fought hard to keep illicitly obtained Polyjuice ingredients legal.

A stray hair here, a broken nail there, and one could impersonate most of Wizarding Britain if one so desired – and people wondered why Slytherins were paranoid...

Fortunately for Draco, he had got paid while he had collected his Polyjuice library.

He even had one of Hermione's curly hairs. His hand hovered in front of the envelope containing it as he weighed up dozens of scenarios where using it could go horribly, horribly wrong. It would be safest to destroy it. It was what a sensible man would do.

Draco sighed again.

He was a Veela, not a man, but he was still a Malfoy and they were certainly not sensible. The hair would stay because he might need it one day, and Malfoys never let morals curtail their survival.

Instead, he pulled out another envelope, containing a single brown hair. It was entirely undistinguished, much like its owner.

* * *

“I didn't realise you're writing the articles now as well – the _Prophet_ must be on its knees!” Weasley laughed a lot longer than the feeble joke deserved.

Draco forced his unfamiliar lips into a smile, checking the mirror behind Weasley to make sure it looked like merriment rather than a death grin. “This is for _Witch Weekly_ , actually – guess they're not going to win any writing awards this year either.”

Weasley took a long sip of his pint, already casting an eye at the bar to get a second one lined up. “What do you want to know, then?” he asked, not ungraciously.

Draco relaxed; he hadn't been sure how well Weasley knew Dennis Creevey, but so far he seemed to have pulled it off. “I've got a list here...” He pulled it out of his pocket and put it down on the table for the two of them to peruse.

“Favourite flower?”

“Haven't a clue. Go with roses, surely all women like them.”

Draco stared at him pityingly before he remembered it was hardly in character for the role he was playing. “Roses, sure,” he said, making a show of jotting it down.

“Favourite drink?”

Weasley took another sip, wiping his mouth with his hand afterwards. “Tea, I guess. Or wine?”

“Which wine?”

“Red?”

* * *

Draco nearly didn't bother Obliviating Weasley afterwards; it was a mystery how the man managed to get himself to work in the mornings. Merlin knew how his relationship with Hermione had lasted for more than a year after the war – it must have been the shared trauma.

Draco's probation officer had a lot to say on that subject, too.

After all his effort, Draco was back to square one – beyond books, cats, and clever magic, he had no idea what Hermione's tastes were. How was he supposed to make her happy if he didn't even know what she liked?

At least she has decent coffee in the cubbyhole that passed for her office (after Malfoy Manor and Hogwarts, what the Ministry considered adequate working space was far from Draco's definition).

Wait a minute – maybe he was onto something there?

* * *

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Hermione got her wand out just in time before the cloud of sawdust descended on her desk. She managed to save her working papers but her robes succumbed, the pale dust settling on her shoulders like particularly malevolent dandruff.

The workman hovering some five feet above ground didn't even stop his hammering. “Security department identified some structural ward problems. The whole office has to be rebuilt.”

“But I've got a report due the day after tomorrow!” Hermione almost wailed

“Sorry, love.” He leant backwards, presumably to inspect his handiwork. “Malfoy said it'll be at least another two weeks.”

“Two weeks!”

* * *

Malfoy didn't even have the grace to fake some sympathy, the bastard. He had his feet on his desk, leaning backwards on his chair.

“Don't do that, you could break your neck if you fell,” Hermione snapped.

“Wouldn't you heal it for me?” He fluttered his eyelashes at her.

She looked away on principle, but not before noticing they were very pale. “Well, yes, but that's not the point!”

“Seems pretty relevant to me.”

“Oh, for Merlin's sake! I'm not here to discuss your neck or any other portion of your anatomy.” Hermione ploughed on before he could descend into innuendo. “Why has my office turned into a building site?”

Malfoy glanced at his watch – a surprisingly Muggle contraption for him to use. “Have you only noticed now? Bit late to arrive for work after eleven, even for a war hero. Potter clocked in at eight this morning.”

“I had a site visit,” Hermione announced in glacial tones before she remembered that the man before her was the key to completing her report on Centaur habitats before the next Wizengamot hearing. “Can't they stop working just for one day?”

Malfoy seemed to enjoy the situation far too much for her liking. “Unfortunately there is a major security issue affecting your area – someone must have fallen asleep on the job during the 1870 renovations. We have to remove the inner ceiling to recast the wards.”

“But if nothing has happened for the last hundred and thirty-odd years, does it really have to be done this afternoon?”

“Can't you just work from home?” Malfoy being reasonable took Hermione by surprise.

“To complete my report I need to use some of my reference books. There are hundreds of them, a significant minority of which are fiercer than _The Monster Book of Monsters_.” 

They both winced at the memory.

“I don't know which ones I'll need, and in any case, I don't have security clearance to bring them home,” Hermione explained as if he were Ron or Harry (albeit more literate). Miraculously, it seemed to work.

“I'll see if I can get you a temporary office. Can you get the books transferred within the Ministry?”

* * *

Draco knew he had gone too far.

He should have let Hermione finish the report or obtained clearance for her to bring whatever she needed home, but the temptation had been too great. Instead, he had let her transfer her paraphernalia to the office next to his, setting her up so he would have to pass her door several times a day.

Being exposed to more of his company did not change the fundamental basis of their interactions.

He was still Draco Malfoy and she was Hermione Granger – finding out that Draco was a Veela and she was his mate was unlikely to fill Hermione with joy, assuming she didn't curse him on sight. It was better if she never found out; at least she wouldn't have yet another reason to avoid his company.

Well, it was done – there was no point beating himself up over a fait accompli. Draco bounced off his chair to go down to the canteen for some lunch. It was purely by coincidence he happened to pass by Hermione's office.

* * *

“Granger?”

Ever since Hermione had evacuated her reference books to the makeshift office down by Security, Malfoy had been like a jack-in-the-box, appearing at her door at the slightest provocation. He must be very bored; she had to admit having an intelligent co-worker nearby was a vast improvement on Whittlewaite. She didn't even know what Malfoy was supposed to be doing, so she didn't get annoyed when he wasted time either.

As far as Hermione was concerned, she reckoned she was owed a little time to waste – her report had gone off to be reviewed on time, and the revisions were minimal.

“Yes?” she asked, putting her quill down in anticipation of another discussion on the theory of Charms, or why Libatius Borage had been a poorer Potions brewer than Severus Snape.

Alas, it wasn't to be.

“There's someone here with a delivery for you.”

“Oh, right.” Hermione got up, trying to remember if she had got that Flourish and Blotts order sent to work instead of home. She could do with a bit of light reading material – she had almost finished _Sauntering With Centaurs – A Critical Deconstruction Of Three Millenia Of Anthropoid Bias_.

A gigantic bouquet of peonies walked through her door, the staggering delivery wizard beneath almost invisible.

“What on earth?” She pointed to her desk, thankfully noticing the flowers came equipped with a vase. More of an urn, really.

“Can you sign here, miss?”

The formalities completed, both wizards left her office and Hermione remained with more peonies than in a large garden. They were lovely – right on the cusp of exploding into large balls of petals, the scent discernible but not overpowering.

She was rather surprised at Malfoy not hanging back to get a few choice comments in – maybe he was busy.

As she had no clue who had sent her more flowers than she had received in her whole life so far, she was grateful he had absented himself while she had a fumble for the card. It was more like a flower arrangement than a bouquet, really, with lots of potential hiding places.

Hermione remembered she was a witch. “Accio card!”

Ron and Harry's postcard from last summer's trip to Bognor Regis was not what she had in mind. She put it back in her temporary desk drawer and considered who could be sending her flowers anonymously.

Thankfully, Malfoy had swept them before they had been brought into her office and there was no curse on them, which ruled out quite a few of the potential senders. It left a few (very few) exes, a list that was whittled down even further when she considered how likely they were to send her flowers.

Ron, for example, never had even when they were going out together – he was hardly going to start now, several new girlfriends later.

She caught her breath at a horrifying possibility. Surely – surely, not?

No, Hermione decided: even Ron at his most obtuse was too clever to head down the same road twice, hoping for a different outcome. Two weeks ago, he had been happy with Sarah Fawcett – the jump from there to trying to woo Hermione into giving him a second chance was too wide.

Besides, Ron would have made damn sure she knew who had stumped up a fortune at the florist.

There was a thought – maybe the flower shop could tell her who the sender was? Unfortunately, she drew a blank there, too – there was no label or anything else with a logo in sight.

Hermione was stumped.

Admittedly, she was stumped and surrounded by a profusion of her favourite flower, which wasn't the worst thing in the world. The report on the Merpeople at Hogwarts and their persistent issues with the Giant Squid wasn't going to write itself – she had better get cracking.

Hermione stole one last look at the pink loveliness parked on a small side table, threatening to topple over beneath the weight.

Perhaps it was sad that she couldn't think of anyone who would go to the expense and trouble to send her something like that.

Perhaps she should concentrate on her work.

* * *

“Oi, Hermione!”

“Ron. What an unexpected surprise.” Hermione tossed her quill aside; she had made some progress, at least, and even Merpeople had lunch.

“I hear you're getting flowers – Wow! Those must have cost a fortune!”

The rumour mill at the Ministry was even worse than the Gryffindor common room. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, this and that,” Ron said vaguely, clearly not listening to her. He had got his wand out and was prodding her peonies.

She glared at him. “Stop that! They've been screened, so you can put that wand away and follow me down to the Atrium. I thought we'd get some fresh air today.”

“Bet you did, with that monstrosity polluting the air in your office.”

“It's not –“ Hermione reminded herself Ron was much smarter than he let on. “It's a nice day. How did you get on with the Twickenham case?”

He was not above jumping at a chance to tell her all about his latest case, however, so Hermione escaped further scrutiny without too much trouble.

She wondered, however.

She wondered even more when the next offering showed up: a woven basket containing a mouthwatering selection of sushi. Hesitating a long time, she eventually called in Malfoy to check her detection spells had not missed anything.

It was funny – it was only as he was scanning the basket with mystery sushi that Hermione realised she actually trusted him. To a limited extent, of course – if push came to shove, he would act in his own interest, but she did not believe he had any interest in her succumbing to food poisoning. Somehow, he had grown into his role to protect the Ministry and those who worked there so seamlessly that even former enemies believed his good faith.

It was quite an achievement for someone who had started every second sentence with “My father...” only ten years ago.

“All good to go. Or eat, in this case,” Malfoy said as he put away his wand.

Hermione's heart was hammering like she was about to face a dragon; she would have to take herself to task for overreacting later. “Thanks, Draco.”

He stopped midway to the door, his back turned so she could not see his face. “You're welcome, Hermione.”

Draco resumed his path to the doorway, but his step seemed lighter somehow. Hermione sighed: now she was delusional as well. There had better not be anything in the sushi – things were bad enough already.


	3. Chapter 3

If sending Hermione a basket of seafood made her call him by his first name, Draco might just buy up the whole North Sea.

It was... satisfying to have her so close. It must be a Veela thing, that deep sense of contentment that sat in his chest when he knew Hermione was in her office, just a few feet away. If he had been a cat, Draco would have been spinning. Instead, he found excuses to walk past her door, hoping it would be open.

It was, quite often.

Draco told himself sternly that it was only because she was used to useless lumps like Whittlewaite as a coworker, not suave wizards of the world like himself. Anyone would appreciate the difference; a woman of distinction like Hermione certainly would jump at a chance for intelligent conversation.

It wasn't like she was spoilt for choice, with friends like Weasley and Potter.

He advanced cautiously, careful not to alarm her.

The next sushi delivery appeared the following Tuesday, starting a weekly pattern. Mondays were for replenishing the flowers in her office, having grown stale during the weekend. On Wednesdays, he started sending her articles from the academic journals that languished in the library at the Manor. Thursdays were for afternoon tea; a tea room in Upper Flagley did a decent home delivery, with the added bonus of not having to involve any of the Malfoy house-elves.

On Fridays, he followed his fancy: if Hermione looked like she was catching a cold, he sent a cup of steaming hot chocolate and a cashmere blanket. If he knew she was going out to meet her friends, he found some trinket for her to wear, and if all else failed there was always books.

For obvious reasons, he couldn't hang around too much to see if she actually used his gifts, but an overheard conversation with Potter in the corridor was illuminating.

“Are you still stuck here?” Potter asked, not bothering to close the door behind him. Draco could hear Hermione's voice too, albeit more muffled:

“Apparently they found subsidence; Whittlewaite is working from home for a few weeks while they fix it.”

“He's working?” Potter sounded surprised – perhaps standards were different for Aurors. 

“At least he can't hamper my efforts from there, so the net result is nil rather than negative. Apart from sending an owl every five minutes when he actually has to do some work.” Hermione sounded resigned rather than exasperated.

Draco had not realised Whittlewaite was quite that bad. The man would have to go, but it was going to be tricky: Hermione was unlikely to appreciate the traditional Malfoy ways of removing officials that had outstayed their welcome, and since the whole point of the exercise was to make her happy he would have to think of something else. Even if she never would find out.

This Veela thing was bloody complicated.

“Is that why the repairs are dragging on? Very Slytherin of you.”

“Must be Dra- Malfoy rubbing off on me. I might bring a few cases of beer when it looks like they're finishing up.”

It had been too much to hope for Potter to let that one slip – he had survived until now, after all, so he couldn't be completely useless as an Auror.

“He's 'Draco' now? When did that happen?” Potter's voice was sharp.

“Oh, a few weeks ago. He was doing me a favour, and I just thought it was stupid we were using surnames. Like we were still fifth years trading insults.” Her voice sounded distant, like it had travelled back all those years.

Draco was torn between relief that she did see that he had changed, and annoyance at his fifteen-year-old self.

If he had only had a little bit of cop-on, he wouldn't have had to spend his twenties making up for past misdeeds. Instead, teenage Draco had been determined to commit every bit of idiocy available to him at the time, cheerily waving goodbye to common sense until it was forcefully brought home to him how deluded he had been.

It had been too late by then, of course – unfortunately newly minted Death Eaters couldn't cover up their tattoos and go back home to Mummy.

Potter could see her, of course, not to mention his superior knowledge of all things Hermione. He obviously read something into her response Draco couldn't hear: “You actually get on with him?”

“Yes, I do. He's been really nice about this secret admirer stuff – hardly any sarcastic comments at all. Unlike some I might mention.” It sounded like she was rummaging around for her things, and Draco quickly Disillusioned himself.

“Come on, Hermione – you have to admit it's too good not to say anything.” He continued in quite a different tone, suddenly all professional: “Are you still concerned it could be malicious?”

“No. It's been going on for so long and everything has checked out clear so far – I'll keep checking, of course, but I don't see why someone would think I'd be less vigilant the 97th time than the 96th.”

“They might, if they don't know you,” Potter pointed out.

“That's what's so confusing – it's obvious that they do know me, but I can't think of who it might be! Are you sure you don't have any gaps in your memory recently? You're the only person I can possibly think of.”

“Quite sure. Why would it be me?”

Draco had to strain to hear her answer:

“Because I can't think of anyone else who would care enough about me to bother.”

It was the finality of it that flicked Draco on the raw – Hermione Granger, the best and the brightest of the wizarding world, was convinced that no one other than her two best friends gave two hoots about her. At least Potter probably knew what her favourite flower was, while Weasley was so absorbed in his own petty concerns that he barely registered Hermione was a person in her own right, rather than an appendage to himself.

Draco had been too cautious, letting his fear of freaking her out overrule his natural impulse to shower his mate with all her favourite things.

He wasn't going to hold back anymore; Hermione needed to know there was at least one person who could appreciate her properly.

* * *

“They just keep coming!” Hermione downed most of her gin and tonic in one swift gulp, which only made her cough helplessly until her airways cleared.

She really couldn't win this week.

“What, like flowers and food?” Luna took a dignified sip of her improbably coloured cocktail.

It was probably the habitat of some imaginary creature, Hermione thought surlily. “Like anything – yesterday I received a set of opera glasses!”

“Did you have some already?” Luna failed entirely to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

“That's not the point,” Hermione said. “The point is that my tiny apartment is twice as full as it was before this madness started, and I still don't know who is showering me with gifts. Or why.”

“I would have thought that would be fairly obvious,” Luna said in that dreamy tone that surely would get her murdered one of these days.

Holding onto her temper between her teeth, Hermione forced out: “Really? Why would that be then, out of interest?”

“Someone wants to get rid of their possessions before the next Goblin rebellion starts. It's only a matter of weeks, did you realise that?”

Perhaps it had been naïve to expect Luna to acquire a closer grasp on reality after living through the war. There had been precious little there to recommend it to her, after all.

“No, I didn't.” Hermione swallowed the rest of her gin and tonic. If there was to be another war, she had rather be prepared.

Then, because she was Hermione Granger and constitutionally unable to leave well alone, she continued: “Seeing as I work for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, I think a new Goblin war is fairly unlikely. Especially as we are on the cusp of allowing them to use wands.”

Even Whittlewaite couldn't fuck this up now – he had been suspended for mysterious reasons a few days ago. Beyond rejoicing every spare moment, Hermione had not spent a lot of time wondering why – if he had been stitched up, she might have felt compelled to do something about it. Whittlewaite's loss would be the magical creatures' gain, thus restoring cosmic harmony.

“Really?” Luna stirred her drink with the enchanted straw that came with it, which slowly changed shape from a ludicrous palm tree to a wand, and then back again. “Father must be mistaken, then – I'll speak to him before he runs the article.”

Hermione thanked her lucky stars she had agreed to meet Luna tonight – the last thing she wanted was for a breathless article in the Quibbler to endanger the delicate state of Goblin relationships.

“Yeah, that'd be great,” she said, trying to sound unaffected.

“So what about your little problem, then?”

Hermione sat up straight. “What makes you think I have a problem? What's problematic about receiving gifts?”

“You seem to think it's a problem, or you wouldn't bring it up,” Luna pointed out and Hermione remembered she possessed a first-rate brain. If only she would bother to use it all of the time.

“I would really like to know who it is,” Hermione admitted. “It bothers me that someone knows so much about me and I don't know who it is, even if they have good intentions.”

“I see.” Luna waved at the barman, who obligingly reached for a rainbow-coloured bottle. “I suppose you will need to find out, then.”

“Obviously I would, if I knew how!” Exasperation almost got the better of Hermione. She waved to the barman instead, pointing at her glass once she had his attention.

“Oh.”

Fresh drinks were put in front of them. 

They drank.

“An Umgubular Slashkilter might help,” Luna suggested after a while.

“Possibly. If any such thing existed.” Hermione decided to leave after the next drink – there were only so many flights of Luna's ever-fertile imagination she could stand in one evening.

“Don't listen to her, Raymond.” Luna had unearthed something from her pocket while Hermione sat in gloomy silence, and was stroking its furry, purple head as it curled up in the palm of her hand.

“What,” Hermione asked carefully, “is that?”

“This is Raymond. He's an Umgubular Slashkilter – you can tell by his tail.”

It was short and stubby, almost like a pig's, and it wiggled.

Unwillingly, Hermione had to concede the creature existed, although the jury was still out on whether it was what Luna thought it was. “And what does Raymond do?”

“He sniffs out secrets. As long as there is a trace of your secret admirer, Raymond will be able to find it. Umgubular Slashkilters have a phenomenal sense of smell – they can even follow a scent when Apparating.”

Hermione groaned. There went the weekend – there was no way she could allow those creatures free reign in Britain, and since Whittlewaite was gone she was the only person who could draft the appropriate regulations. “Please tell me they're very, very rare.”

“Minister Fudge imported the only known Umgubular Slashkilter into Britain. Well, when I say known – it was only by pure luck Father found out about it.

“What about Raymond, then? Where did you find him?” It was hard to blame a furry little creature for existing, but Hermione managed.

“Oh, he came to me, of course. He was looking for a safe home.” Luna stroked his round little head.

Hermione sighed. “No better place for him.”

Sometimes, it would have been nice to feel like she was in control of things, but both Hermione and Luna knew there was no way she was going to tear Raymond from his adopted mother.

* * *

“He's caught something!” Luna's excitement was not matched by Hermione, who looked dubiously at Raymond's tail wiggling lasciviously in the air on Hermione's desk at the Ministry.

He wasn't moving, just rubbing his tummy on the engraved pocket mirror she had received that morning. Luna had advised her to hold out for something that was likely to have been held by the sender, so yesterday Hermione had taken a break from the investigation to enjoy her customary Thursday afternoon tea delivery, feeling somewhat reluctant to give it up.

She had to, though – the current situation was not sustainable. Spending more time wondering about her secret admirer than doing actual work was not going to set the house-elves free this century.

She had to find out.

“Rnffl!” Raymond said, and Luna beamed.

“Such a clever boy!”

Hermione observed a polite silence as Raymond rolled around on her desk, pushing her prized copy of _Most Macabre Monstrosities_ off the edge. He seemed to like the stacks of parchment, burrowing his snout into as many of them as possible until it looked like the desk had been attacked by a storm of memos.

“I actually have some work to do...” she started, only to be shushed by Luna.

Raymond sat up, blinking several times as if he just had woken up. Then, he sniffed loudly and shuffled over to the steep drop to the floor (at least for those who were only five inches high). Luna gently lifted him down. Raymond got on to all four legs, still sniffing loudly, and started moving towards the wall.

He didn't stop until he bumped his head into the wall. Then, he drew back a little and buffed the wall again.

And again.

“I'll just reply to this letter – “ Hermione began, when Raymond suddenly turned ninety degrees and set off at full speed towards the door.

Luna and Hermione could barely keep up with him as he turned into a fuzzy purple blur on the floor. Raymond whizzed down the corridor, where he promptly disappeared through Draco's door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him.

There was a muted scream from the inside.

“Someone must have Apparated from in there!” Luna glowed with excitement, rather like the owner of a puppy who finally pooped outside.

“Yes,” Hermione said, her mind spinning. It couldn't possibly be Draco – and yet...

All the little moments during the last few months suddenly clicked together. Draco, asking if she was going to the canteen for lunch, somehow leading to her moaning about the lack of sushi or anything decent to eat. Hundreds of questions he had sneaked into their conversations, all leading to the succession of gifts landing on her desk.

Thinking about it, the conversations were suspicious in themselves.

Draco seemed to have developed a taste for her company, but the fact that he was Malfoy had disguised what would have been obvious in anyone else. They had come so far; maybe it was possible that Draco Malfoy had fallen in love – no, had developed a fondness for Hermione Granger.

Hermione took a deep breath. Whatever was waiting on the other side of the door, she was ready for it.


	4. Chapter 4

The little purple monstrosity had latched on to Draco's thumb, and it Would. Not. Let. Go. Draco had resorted to waving his hand in the air, trying to break the creature's grasp, when someone burst through his office door.

“Loo- Luna Lovegood! What are you doing here?”

She stretched her hand out towards the furry whatever-the-hell-it-was-called: “Raymond, come here!”

Raymond did not budge.

“I don't know what's got into him, usually he can't be diverted once he has found a scent.” In some ways, it was a comfort to find she had not changed at all since – since everything. She did not start hurling abuse at Draco either, which was a welcome surprise.

“Have you got any Gurgling Plimpies in your pockets?” Lovegood asked instead. “He goes mad for those.”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Kindly get Raymond off me, I'm sure there is somewhere he needs to be. Far away from here.”

“Yes, I think we're done here, Luna,” a familiar voice announced from the direction of the door.

Hermione.

As usual, his stomach did a double-flip and the blood in his veins seemed to have been replaced with champagne. Bloody Veela blood.

Lovegood and Hermione shared one of those looks one could fit a whole conversation into. Hermione flicked her wand and Raymond disappeared into Lovegood's pocket. His owner looked a little bit miffed, but thankfully she left the room.

Without offering them any Plimpies, which was a relief.

“So,” Hermione began.

Nothing good began with a 'so', but for once in his life, Draco couldn't think about anything to say. Of course, knowing what the conversation was going to be about might have helped.

“It appears it is you who have been sending me all these mysterious gifts. That you so obligingly helped me scan for malicious magic, too.”

Oh, fuck. It had never occurred to Draco how it would look from the outside – he had been too busy trying to find out what sort of chocolate Hermione preferred.

“I carried out all the checks just like I would have if they had been from someone else,” he rushed to assure her. “There was absolutely nothing harmful in any of them, I swear.” 

Hermione looked smug, and Draco realised he must be the first Slytherin ever to be tricked into a confession by a Gryffindor.

“Not that I had anything to do with them, of course.” He tried to retrieve the conversation, but she wasn't having any of it.

“I wondered why, of course, but then it came to me.”

“It did?” Draco barely knew what he was saying.

“There was only one logical explanation.” Hermione smiled, and even in his supreme confusion Draco could appreciate how her face was transformed. Unfortunately, seeing the golden specks in her eyes glitter demolished his defences completely.

“That I am a Veela and you are my mate?” he blurted out.

“That you – _what_?”

They stared at each other. If an Erumpent had burst in through the door and ran around Draco's desk three times, both of them would have been oblivious.

“I'm a Veela,” Draco repeated. The shock must have been too much for her – it was a lot to absorb in one go. “As luck would have it you're my mate, so I tried to think of a way to do something nice for you without telling you.”

Her smile was long gone, and in its place came an array of emotions Draco couldn't even begin to identify.

Except the last one – it was the same furious indignation he remembered from Hogwarts. He took a step back, instinctively – even at fourteen, her punch had been stronger than what he would have expected.

“You – you idiot! Veelas don't mate! The worst that will happen to you is a few spontaneous fireballs and a temporary beak – the mating theory was disproved by Newton Scamander in 1932. Just because your family refuses to pay any attention to people they don't agree with, doesn't mean they're wrong!”

Draco's lips moved soundlessly as he tried to recalibrate the past months from this new viewpoint.

Unfortunately, Hermione was not willing to wait for him to catch up. “You and your gifts can fuck right back where you came from. Do not contact me again, or you will be sorry!”

She swept out of his office in a cloud of righteous anger, leaving Draco behind with absolutely no idea what just had happened – for all he knew, he could have blacked out and missed the crucial part of the conversation.

One thing Draco did know, at least: it was just his luck to have Granger as a mate.

Merlin forbid anything in his life would ever be easy.

* * *

Draco stared morosely at his dragon-hide boots. They gleamed in the unseasonal sunshine, planted firmly on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. He had managed to snag a seat on one of the benches opposite Gringotts. As a side benefit of his current depression, the constant sighing had driven away the family that had occupied the rest of it.

He was all alone; just the way he liked it.

The empty grey space in his chest begged to disagree, but Draco dismissed it. 

He had done his reading at last. Of course, Granger had been right – Newton Scamander had written a whole treatise on the subject, but as he also had mortally offended one of Draco's ancestors it was family custom to pretend Scamander did not exist as far as it was feasible.

It would have been really bloody useful if Draco had realised that Veelas did not mate a bit earlier, but as he never was going to speak to Granger again it didn't really matter.

“Morning, Malfoy.” The voice was familiar, but the scuffed Muggle sneakers belonging to it suggested it was not one of Draco's closer friends. He looked up and found himself staring into the wide brown eyes of Ginevra Weasley. They weren't the right colour, though, not like –

“What are you doing here?” he said quickly, cutting off that train of thought right there.

“It's a free country. Look, I can even do this.” She dangled a foot above his boots, and Draco couldn't help but smile.

“Why are you talking to me, then?” They had not become friends, exactly, that year after the war when Draco had gone back to school to put off his probation another year. Acquaintances, perhaps – people who could manage a civil conversation, as long as it wasn't too often.

“Millie says you're an idiot, but you usually mean well.”

Draco groaned – Merlin save him from meddling witches. Millie had joined the Harpies last year, and somehow she had ended up bosom buddies with her Weasley team mate. The leap from Ginny to Hermione was small beer by comparison.

He stood up. “Right, it was lovely to catch up with you. We should do it again sometime.”

The youngest Weasley didn't even budge. “Wouldn't you like to know why Hermione is furious with you?”

Draco's knees bypassed his brain and promptly folded. He sat down with a bump, not even bothering to feign indifference. “Do tell.”

“You need to see it from her point of view,” Weasley lectured as if he were a Hufflepuff first-year. “She isn't used to anyone making a fuss over her. Ron is – well, Ron, and they broke up years ago, and Terry Boot certainly never bothered his arse doing anything nice for her.”

Filing away the unexpected information about Boot – someone should teach him to treat witches properly – Draco waited impatiently for the rest. It did not seem to be forthcoming. “What do you mean?”

A gigantic sigh from Weasley. “I'll explain it in small words, shall I? Given that someone actually went out of their way for her, researching what she liked and was so persistent about it, it came as a bit of a blow to find out you only did it because you thought you had 'mated' with her.”

Draco stared at her in horrified fascination – she actually used her hands to make giant quotation marks. Did people really do that?

“Yes, yes, we all know she hates me. I was hoping for something more imaginative.” Draco tucked away the sting of disappointment deep in his chest, far beneath his smooth Malfoy face.

“Are you even listening to me? Hermione didn't hate you two months ago when you weighed her wand every morning, did she?”

“She hates me because I thought she was my mate. Because I used to be a Death Eater.” Why did he have to keep stating the obvious?

She-Weasley tossed her long red hair impatiently. “How can you breathe and walk at the same time with a brain like that? You don't think it could be your insistence that Draco Malfoy couldn't possibly have fallen in love with Hermione Granger, up to and including making up traits of magical creatures, to explain away the fact? You don't think she might have found that a bit hurtful?” 

She paused for breath, not a moment too late – she must be running out of air after all that sarcasm.

“You think – I've actually fallen in love with Hermione Granger.” Draco was lucky he already was sitting down, or he would have tumbled down like a broken broom.

“Ten points to Slytherin. Well done.”

“Sarcasm is very unattractive, you know,” he managed to get out without engaging his brain, which was still busy having epiphanies.

Weasley rolled her eyes. “Remind me to ask you what you think when I actually give a shit about your opinion.”

Somewhat belatedly, it occurred to Draco that pissing off the one person who could help him wasn't the best move. “Is Hermione very angry?”

“I wouldn't approach her without a Shield Charm if I were you.”

“What would you do then, if you were me?”

Weasley was here, anyway, so Draco couldn't be completely bonkers hoping she would help him. With what, he wasn't quite sure. He was just desperate to get rid of the sinking feeling he got every time he imagined Hermione thinking about how Draco had latched on to any possible explanation other than that he actually had fallen in love with her.

Malfoys didn't go for chivalry, as a rule, but even they had some standards. He could not allow Hermione to keep on believing he still thought she was beneath him, that he still was the same snotty idiot he had been at school.

He had his pride, if nothing else.

Draco was already halfway through what he later would refer to as The Plan before Weasley spoke, hoping capitalising it in his head would make it more likely to work. The pitiful dregs of a game plan he had in mind would have disgraced a Slytherin first year.

“Keep it simple,” Weasley said eventually. “No elaborate schemes, no fancy ways to convince her. Just be honest.”

Draco groaned. Why did he have to fall in love with a Gryffindor – had he not suffered enough during the war?

It would be helpful if his subconscious wasn't determined to punish him for past misdeeds.

* * *

Hermione looked suspiciously at her desk. She had popped out for coffee, refusing on principle to avail of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' own supplies as they were still tainted by association with Malfoy. As he wasn't there to see it, the only person who suffered was Hermione, which did not put her in a better mood. 

Finding 'Sorry' spelled out in sashimi on a tray hovering above her abandoned interdepartmental memo was the icing on the cake.

Hermione sighed. No doubt, the cherry on top was hovering in the vicinity. “You may as well come out. Presumably, this means you decided not to listen to Ginny.”

“She told you?” Malfoy looked slightly more worn than usual – perhaps it was the indignity of hiding behind the door to her office.

“Ginny has been my friend since we were in second year – one of my best friends. If you'd ever had any time for Harry, you would have known that means something. If you thought she was going to talk to you behind my back, you're delusional.”

“Did you – “ He perked up a bit before Hermione could put him right.

“She told me afterwards. I didn't set her up to play Cupid if that's what you think. Now, if that is all, some of us have work to do –“

Malfoy vanished the sushi before Hermione had time to do it. The utterly serious expression on his face took her by surprise.

“I realise you have plenty of reasons not to give me the time of the day, much less go out with me. Before I go, I just need you to know this: I'm utterly rubbish at making you fancy me. As evidenced by the events of the last few months.”

“Finally, something we can agree on,” she mumbled.

Malfoy continued, unabated: “It doesn't change the fundamental facts. We could be amazing together. Not just for ourselves – if the two of us can overcome our differences, doesn't that mean something to the whole Wizarding world?”

Hermione couldn't contain herself any longer. “I'm not going to live my personal life for – for the Greater Good!” 

“No, but a level-headed witch like you might consider all the advantages or disadvantages before making your decision.” Trust Malfoy to sound smoother than a baby's bottom even when he was on the back foot.

“Go on, then,” she said wearily.

“Ginny Weasley said something I think was important. She told me you did not hate me a few months ago when I met you at the wand stations every morning. If we can ever manage to meet without our respective pasts dictating our every interaction, what would we be like together?

“But –“

“It happened. All of it. You were a heroine, I was a bigoted idiot who ended up way over my head and learnt my father was an even worse idiot with homicidal tendencies. I also learnt that Muggle or wizard blood looks exactly the same, and I don't much like the sight of either.” Surely, he would have to stop for a breath soon? Apparently not:”You learnt that old prejudices run deep and that not everything can be found in a book. We've changed, both of us. Maybe it matters more who we are today than who we used to be.”

Hermione couldn't quite remember why she still was annoyed with him when he reminded her:

“And I'm sorry,” Draco added belatedly. “Clearly I'm absolutely rubbish at all things romance, because I genuinely believed I had mated with you.”

“I guess I should be grateful you didn't drag me to your cave by my hair.” Some of the earlier Veela writings were rather graphic on the subject – wizard wish-fulfilment, presumably.

“I do have some sense of self-preservation. Slytherin, remember.”

Draco was taller than Harry, but not as tall as Ron. Pointy chin, just like his father – a visual reminder of the boy he once had been. Grey eyes, surprisingly warm, surrounded by scores of faint lines. The war had left its mark elsewhere, too – not just on his arm, hidden discretely beneath his robes. A faint scar winded its way around his neck before disappearing under his white-blond hair. It was long, these days, almost reaching his shoulders.

He probably would be considered good-looking by someone seeing him for the first time. An objective observer.

Hermione found she was nothing of the sort – she had returned the smile lurking in his eyes without even noticing, and she was utterly incapable to consider Draco as merely a package of visible attributes.

Annoyingly, she seemed to be left with only one option.

“Fine,” Hermione said. “One date. You get one chance to convince me I'm not making a terrible mistake.”

She had never seen him smile like that before – like his heart was written on his face. “If you let me, I will spend a very long time indeed convincing you that you haven't.”

“Smooth,” Hermione muttered, but even she could feel the glow on her cheeks.

“Tomorrow night?” Draco was suddenly all business.

She raised her eyebrows. “If you're ready for it?”

“With you, I would be ready for anything.” He bowed, swerved around and with a flick of his wand he returned the tray with sushi to its former place.

“Wait a second –“ Hermione began, but Draco was already firmly ensconced in his office – he must have Apparated the last bit, if the soft 'pop' followed by a slamming door was anything to go by.

“If you think you've won me over just like that, you've got another think coming,” Hermione told him through the wall, but she was smiling like she had just been awarded an Order of Merlin for services to house-elves.

****

THE END


End file.
